Tiny pops of lime-coloured leaves were unfurling at the tips of the plane trees. It was a magical day with clear skies and a light wind. Daffodils spilled haphazardly from window boxes, and coolies swept the footpaths. The hum of automobiles, trolley buses and doubledecker buses had all but disappeared.

Romy couldn’t help but remember the day they’d pulled up in front of Grosvenor House in a shiny new Daimler, thanks to Mr Sassoon. Today they were leaving this glorious apartment in a rickshaw with just a few suitcases. They had sold most of their clothes and goods because they would have no space for them in the tiny room they had managed to secure in a lane house in Hongkew. A local Chinese family of twelve—grandparents, parents and six children—had agreed to rent their top room to the Bernfelds. Who knew how much more expensive their rent would get? Not to mention food. They would be trapped in the ghetto. They would need all the resources they could squirrel away.

Romy stood on the front steps of Grosvenor House, hugging Amah and sobbing.

‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

Amah shrugged, resigned. ‘Family. You take care now, Miss Romy. You too, Dr Bernfeld.’ She reached out and took both of Mutti’s hands, saying nothing but staring into her eyes. Mutti nodded stiffly, lifted a hand to wipe the tears from her eyes and then clasped Amah in a tight hug. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You and Dr Ho.’

Amah pulled back and batted Mutti’s thanks away, the tips of her ears pink, as she said to Romy in a sharp voice, ‘You use my knife properly. No floppy wrists. Stand straight. Yes?’

Romy looked at her suitcase. Amah’s steel cleaver with the wooden handle was tucked inside with a scrawled recipe in her diary for Amah’s master stock.

‘Thank you.’ It wasn’t nearly enough. Romy wiped her eyes with her thumbs.

Four years ago, Romy never imagined she’d be able to use the sweet pink lotus blossoms to wrap parcels of chicken for steaming. Or step out to the markets for Amah and order shrimp and tiny yellow saltwater fish to fry up in vinegar sauce to dissolve their tiny bones. Amah had taught her so much about patience, but most important of all, Amah and Dr Ho had given her back her mother.

Amah climbed into a rickshaw and spoke to the driver, who took off down the street. Moments later, it had vanished around the corner.

Romy leaned against her father for a moment. She was so very tired of watching people she cherished disappear. Her bones ached and she felt seventy, not seventeen.

Mutti’s jewels were once again sewn into the collar of Romy’s coat. It wasn’t quite cool enough to be wearing it, but they couldn’t risk the jewels being confiscated or stolen. Romy climbed into the front rickshaw with the luggage, while Mutti and Papa sat in the one behind.

‘Miss Bernfeld.’ Captain Azuma appeared beside her in his crisp white uniform. ‘I was hoping to catch you before you left. I understand you have an interest in Chinese medicine as well as the modern kind?’

His eyes met hers and she could sense her parents watching anxiously from behind. In his hand was a cream envelope. The corners were bent and filthy, and the seal ripped open. Captain Azuma had obviously checked the contents.

He leaned forwards and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘This is from Jian Ho. He asked—since I told him I was moving into his apartment—whether I could give it to you. It’s unusual, but as you are studying to be a doctor…’

Romy sat and stared at Captain Azuma, wondering if this was a trick.

‘He patrols under my command, mostly in Hongkew.’ The envelope slid from Romy’s fingers onto the floor of the rickshaw.

The captain glanced over his shoulder and leaned in a fraction closer. ‘It is a list of herbs he wrote out for you in my office—a herbal tonic for you to make for your mother.’

Romy shook her head. ‘I don’t know—’

‘She was unwell for a time, I believe?’ he interrupted.

Romy nearly jumped off the rickshaw to hug him. Instead, she nodded demurely, trying to mask her racing heart. Captain Azuma gently picked up the envelope and wiped its front with his white sleeve. He pressed it into Romy’s hands as he said, ‘Of course, it would be better for you all if you have no further contact.’

He held her gaze for a beat without blinking. Then he stepped away from the rickshaw after giving it a tap to get it moving, like one might for a horse and cart. His voice was wistful, as if he were imagining he were somewhere else—that life, perhaps, was different.

‘I saw his sister Yu Baihe sing at the Cathay. Her voice—it’s really something. She should be singing in the Shanghai Opera.’

Riding in a rickshaw down Avenue Joffre for the last time, she barely noticed the boutiques and coffee shops as she opened the envelope.

In Jian’s confident script was a recipe for Sang Ju Yin made from mulberry leaf and chrysanthemum. Suddenly she was back with Dr Ho, Li and Jian in his spice room, opening the jars and drawers, the scent of anise and liquorice root filling her nostrils. Jian would be sketching or annotating the root of a lotus or peony. Li would be humming to herself, ignoring them both but sitting as close as possible all the same. How she missed her friends.

Romy tucked the letter in her coat pocket as other rickshaws pulled in beside her. They too were loaded with baggage and nervous passengers, and they all moved slowly towards the ghetto.

As the Bernfelds approached the Garden Bridge, more rickshaws and pedicabs poured into the street. Some were carrying small children in dark stockings and dresses sitting atop trunks, antique chairs and tables. Others were filled with piles of melons and bags of dried brown beans and rice.

Japanese army trucks and cars moved through the crowds, honking and gesturing for everyone to get out of the way. Gas was in short supply, and all cars had been handed over to—requisitioned by—the Imperial Japanese Army. Rickshaws and pedicabs were the only alternatives.

Soon the Bernfelds reached the checkpoint, where Japanese soldiers stood guard with their bayonets, Chinese soldiers alongside them. Each rickshaw was searched for cash, short-wave radios or contraband tobacco.

Romy had tucked her note from Jian into a medical textbook. She peered closely at the faces of the Chinese soldiers, looking for Jian, but the soldiers stared straight ahead and ignored her. Eventually the Bernfelds climbed from the rickshaws, reached the front of the queue, and handed over their papers. A tiny man—not a thumb more than five feet tall—walked over in a smart suit and polished boots and sat behind the table to inspect them. This must be Ghoya. Delma and Eva had warned them not to attract the ‘arrogant, pint-sized’ Japanese administrator’s attention, as his mood changed with the wind.

There was a pause as Ghoya examined the documents. ‘Doctor? You will work at the hospital?’ It wasn’t a question. He nodded at Mutti, his gaze taking in her expensive brown suit. ‘And Mrs Bernfeld?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Papa, bowing his head.

Ghoya narrowed his eyes, as if trying to work out if Papa’s gesture was respectful or mocking. Romy eyed the guard with the bayonet behind Ghoya with a shudder.

‘You—Miss Romy Bernfeld.’ He waved a letter in the air. ‘This letter requests a leave pass for you to go to university in Frenchtown. What are you studying?’

‘Medicine,’ said Romy, wondering if she should bow her head like her father. But she pictured Dr Ho’s face on the stake and couldn’t. Instead she looked the administrator dead in the eye.

‘Unusual. For a woman.’ He stamped her paper. ‘But, you will see, there are not enough beds, not enough doctors and nurses at the hospital, they tell me. Always asking for more.’ He sighed, as if it were an unreasonable request. ‘You must work there with your father and mother. Help clean.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if you are a good worker, I may give you exit pass. For study.’

Romy wanted to stamp on his shiny black boots with her heels and crush his feet, but instead she kept her eyes steady. ‘Thank you, sir.’